If you are a regular checker of this blog, my apologies. I almost never update it. But here’s a little something I wrote this March, inspired by my birthday and the pandemic.
Like several other people, I have gained a bit of weight during the pandemic. I am pandemic portly. It may or may not be a permanent condition. For some reason, my new size made me want to try a different kind of jean. So I bought some very high-waisted (shut up! I know!) jeans with about as much stretch as your average sheet of plywood. I had to get them two sizes too small because the pair that was actually my size had a distinct “I Gave Up Two Years Ago And You Can Tell From My Jeans” look. The new ones are very snug, at least until the butt starts to sag unpleasantly, after which they look like I gave up on getting to the bathroom in a timely manner.
The ad copy read: “Call ’em “mom jeans”…if your mom was a ’90s supermodel.” The ad copy lied.
They cost a small fortune and were an unholy hassle to return and repurchase, so they get worn even though my true allegiance is to track pants. I had them on this Saturday when some members of Emily’s unicorn collection fell off the window sill and under the bed.
No problem, I thought, breathing shallowly because the stomach section is very tight and the waist is so high they might be compressing my lungs a little bit.
The bed is about one 52-year-old woman away from the wall. So I sidled in there and somehow eased myself down to the floor to grab the unicorns. Got ’em! Let’s see a 90s mom supermodel do that! But then… stuck.
The only part of the jeans that has any extra room is the butt. (Think of the worst-fitting jeans you’ve ever seen and then add a diaper.) But the knees and the waist are so constricting that they prevented me from moving my legs to get up or adjusting my position. I was immobilized behind the bed, clutching a hand full of unicorns.
There was some groaning. Some wiggling. Attempts to edge backward. Efforts to inch forward. Nothing.
Emily was upstairs, happily unaware that her would-be 90s supermodel aunt was stuck. Emily weighs 50 lbs so she would not be able to move the bed, which is what needs to happen to free me and my jeans. My husband was not home. My phone was not in reach. And I didn’t really want her coming downstairs to find me wedged permanently between the bed and the wall. What if it made her claustrophobic or gave her a mom-jean phobia?
I could have asked her to find my phone so I could call the neighbors to come and get me out but I didn’t because of course I fucking didn’t. I have some slivers of dignity left. Like two and a half. Same goes for firefighters. If they come on the premises, there needs to be a cosmetic damage-only fire that has not been caused by me and that casts a flattering light on my concerned expression.
Eventually, as you can tell by the fact that I’m writing this, I got out. It took a good ten minutes for me to breathlessly and painfully edge myself out of there backwards and straight into the dogs’ water bowl.
But I’m free now and I’m 52 and that’s what counts.
tl;dr: I tried mom jeans and nearly paid with my life.